A Christmas Surprise
by Sherlockristy
Summary: It's been almost two years since Sherlock jumped from the roof of St. Bart's. John's relationships with Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and Mycroft have all but ended. After a failed Christmas at his sister's house, he finds himself alone on Christmas, until a strange boy arrives at his apartment.
1. Chapter 1: A Christmas Surprise

The Christmas tree was up.

John sat in his armchair and admired it. It had taken him a huge part of the afternoon to find the right place in the apartment, to string the lights and to hang the ornaments. At his side was a cuppa, and he sipped thoughtfully at it. The tree reminded him of a Christmas long ago, on a similar winter's night when the snow brushed the ground. He remembered the mesmerizing tremor of Sherlock's violin as he played Christmas carols. He remembered drinking mulled wine with Mrs. Hudson and talking with Lestrade about his reconciliation with his wife. He remembered Molly showing up in that gorgeous dress and Sherlock managing to put his whole foot in his mouth.

If he was being truthful with himself, the night hadn't been perfect. He'd stumbled over his own feet with the woman he was seeing, whose presence in his life had been so minimal that he no longer remembered her name. Irene Adler had shown up "dead," and that put a damper on things. But regardless, John had learned that Christmas with Sherlock was better than Christmas without him.

It wasn't that long ago, just a couple of years in truth, but it felt like a lifetime had passed since that night. Last Christmas John had waited until the very last moment before he decided to pack up his things and visit his sister. Harry was surprised to find him on her doorstep. The night had been pleasant enough, but it wasn't the same.

This year he wasn't sure what he would do. Stay at home, he supposed. On a whim he'd purchased a violinist's CD that had a collection of Christmas songs on it. Listen to that, drink some mulled wine.

Since moving out of 221B Baker Street, he'd lost contact with Mrs. Hudson. He'd spent so much time with her and Sherlock, all together, that being with her now made Sherlock's absence feel bigger.

He no longer waltzed in and out of Scotland Yard. Without Sherlock, he had no purpose there. Lestrade still stayed in touch, but their's was a weak, faltering friendship.

He'd hardly heard from Mycroft since Sherlock died. That was no surprise. Mycroft had no use for him without Sherlock.

He could go back to his sister's. John loathed the idea. The last thing he wanted was to become a beggar with no place else to go during the holidays, as he'd felt the year past. He had too much pride – he'd prefer to sit in his armchair and relive memories.

There was a knock on the door.

John put down his cuppa and got to his feet. The knocking got more insistent. "Yes, I'm coming!" he snapped at the closed door. At last he grabbed the knob and swung it open.

On the other side was a teenaged boy that John didn't recognize. He looked him over from top to bottom. The boy's jeans were torn, his clothes were filthy, and his hair looked as if it hadn't seen a comb in a decade. "Can I help you?" John asked, moving to block the door just a little more. The boy couldn't be more than ninetee, and he was taller and probably far stronger.

"You're Mr. Watson then?" the boy asked. He had a lazy accent, from the East side of London. He looked John over with a look of disdain that rivalled John's. To him, John must have looked like a grandfather in his beige cardigan and brown trousers.

"Yes, yes I am," John said.

The boy scowled. "I've been asked to fetch you."

John's eyebrows knit together. "Fetch me?" he asked. "By whom?" 

"You might wanna put a coat on, sir, it's rather nippy out." The boy revealed a mouthful of yellowing teeth. John grimaced. Glancing at the tree and his cuppa, he grabbed his jacket and slipped on his shoes, then followed the boy out of the building.

The boy walked at a brisk pace, and John had to rush to keep up with him. "You haven't answered my question," he said. "You asked you to fetch me?"

"Come on, the faster the better," the boy answered.

"It's quite rude, you know. Is this Mycroft's doing?" the boy snorted. He didn't look like he knew who Mycroft was. If he did, he wouldn't take it so lightly. John was accustomed to Mycroft's bizarre ways of summoning him, but nothing like this had happened in almost two years. What could Mycroft possibly want now?

The boy whistled for a cab. He held the door open for John and climbed in after him. Leaning forward to the cabbie, John heard him whisper, "22 Northumberland Street." Something went off in John's head like an alarm, but before he could escape from the cab the vehicle was already in motion.

This wasn't funny. "What is this?" he demanded, but not unkindly. It was hard for him to speak unkindly to strangers. In fact, the only person he'd ever been comfortable getting angry with had been Sherlock. He kept his voice down so as not to disturb the cabbie. "Why are you taking me there? I haven't been there in-"

"About 3 years," the boy cut him off.

He licked his upper lip. This was not normal. Of course, John was used to not normal, but he was out of practice. "How do you know that?" he asked. The boy turned his head out the window and stared out into the darkness. "Excuse me," John said, louder this time, "but how do you know that? What in hell's name is going on?"

"You'll see, Mr. Watson," the boy said.

"No, I won't _see_. You'll tell me. Now."

The boy snorted again. John fell back in his seat and glared out his window. Someone was playing games with him. Mycroft was clever, but this was just cruel. Taking him back to that place, the place where it all began. John had been avoiding it, along with St. Bart's, Baker Street, and a handful of other venues.

The cab pulled up in front of 22 Northumberland. The boy stepped out and held the door again for John. "This really isn't funny," John told him, staring at the old pub with it's dim lights. "Not funny at all."

"I'm sorry you don't find it more amusing."

He opened the door to the pub and waited for John to step in. John gave him a look but did as he was asked. The door fell shut behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. The door was glass, and through it John could see the boy taking off down the street. The pub was dark inside, except for a tealight that burned at the table by the window. The same table that he'd sat in so long ago with Sherlock, waiting for the serial killer cabbie.

"This is really not funny," he muttered. He slid into the booth, into the same spot. Leaning against the wall was his cane. He hadn't seen it in years, since he stopped using it really. Someone was definitely playing with him. He wished he'd brought a gun.

A door closed on the other side of the pub. John's head snapped in that direction. Footsteps, slow and steady over the wooden floors.

"Who's there?" he grabbed the cane and held it aloft. This was not one of Mycroft's games. "I'm armed, I warn you. Stay away."

"I'd hardly call that a weapon, would you?" 

John almost dropped the cane. His legs wobbled. He needed it more for support than anything else, but he kept it held upright, in case he was wrong. But that _voice_. It couldn't be. He was dead. John had watched him die, watched as he fell from the top of St. Bart's, listened to his final words. He'd seen his body, seen the blood, the paleness of his skin in death. They'd _buried _him.

"No," was all he could think to say. "No. No, I don't believe it, no." 

"Surely you've seen more amazing things than this," that cocky smile, the one you could hear in his voice, even when you couldn't see it. He stepped into the dim candlelight, his dark curls bouncing against his forehead. Those eyes, the eyes that were blue and green and specked with gold and a thousand different colours, danced. His rose lips curved into a smile. "Merry Christmas, John."


	2. Chapter 2: A Welcome Home

"I don't-" John was trying to say something, _anything_, but the words hung just above his head, moving out of his reach whenever he grabbed at them. "You- I don't-"

The firelight cast golden beams across Sherlock's skin. His eyes twinkled, and his lips twisted into his quirky smile. "Breathe, John," he said.

It was then that John realized he wasn't breathing. He inhaled sharply, staring at his feet. He'd only been back for a few seconds and already John felt like an idiot. When he finally looked up, he was glaring. "You don't get to do that."

"Do what?"

"_That_. Showing up out of nowhere. Pretending like everything's okay. It's _not_ okay."

Sherlock moved closer to him. John clutched his cane in his hand, and he had half a mind to swing it at his old friend. So many years he had mourned the loss of Sherlock Holmes. So many years spent wondering what he could have done to change things. For so long he'd listened as the media destroyed Sherlock's name, and could only bite his tongue and hate them.

And now he was here. Sherlock Holmes in the flesh. As tall as ever, with those perfect cheekbones and bewitching eyes.

"You were dead," John said. "I saw you, I checked your pulse. You were dead."

"You want to know how I did it."

John's hands were starting to tremble. He had trouble forming words, so he didn't talk. Sherlock cocked his head to the side, fixed John with a curious look, and said as gently as possible, "Perhaps you should sit down."

"I don't want to sit down," John replied.

Sherlock put a hand on his arm. The touch was electric, as it had been all those years ago. He yanked his arm away. There was a flash of hurt in Sherlock's eyes. John leaned heavily against the cane and avoided Sherlock's gaze.

At last Sherlock stepped away from him. He walked across the pub and turned on the lights. In the full light, John could see Sherlock properly for the first time. He looked exactly the same as the day he'd died, except that there was no blood matted in his hair and his face had a healthy glow. And no one was carting him off on a stretcher. John's heart was wringing itself out.

"So," Sherlock said, removing his coat and dropped it at their booth, "do you want to know how I did it or not?"

John stared at the table. He laughed, but it wasn't really a laugh. It was more of a mix between a laugh and a gasp for air. His lungs were constricting, his stomach was doing backflips, and his brain couldn't keep up with everything. He shook his head. "No," he said at last. "No, I really don't." He headed for the door.

"John," Sherlock called.

John turned around. He was livid. "I don't care how you did it, Sherlock," he snapped. "I don't give a damn. It's been two bloody years since it happened. In all that time, you never thought to drop by? Never thought to write an e-mail or send a bloody text? How hard would it have been? 'Oh yes, by the way, I'm not dead.' Pretty simple." He barged for the door again.

The cold air hit him. His face was flushed and his temperature was rising, and the chilly breeze felt good. He stormed down the street, vaguely aware of the footsteps behind him.

They were gaining on him. Sherlock would always outwalk and outrun him with his stupidly long legs. He was practically a giraffe.

Sherlock's fingers tightened around his arms and swung him back around. "It's not as simple as that John, surely even you must understand that."

He scoffed. "Even me?"

Sherlock grimaced. "You know what I mean."

"You mean that only you, with your superior intellect and cunning, could have possibly handled whatever it was that made you jump from that roof. You could have come to me, but why would you do that? The great Sherlock Holmes doesn't need anyone."

"If I didn't need anyone, I wouldn't have come back."

Sherlock's fingers dug into his arm, as if begging John to understand, but he didn't. He didn't understand and he didn't think he ever would. He'd been crushed. Crushed and stomped on, and the world had poured salt in his wounds and watched him suffer. It would have been easier, if he had known Sherlock was alive. He could have dealt with the press spoiling his friend's good name. He wouldn't have lived every day feeling like an anvil had been dropped on his chest.

Their faces were only inches apart now. John stared into Sherlock's eyes, those eyes that swimmed and changed colour like the ocean and the sky, that were sapphires and topaz and emeralds. His lips drew into a tight line. "I would have helped you," he said.

"I didn't have a choice."

"You had a choice." 

"He was going to have you murdered," Sherlock said. John tried to withdraw, taken aback, but Sherlock kept his right hand firm on John's arm and brought his left behind John's neck, forcing him to stay close. "Moriarty, he had men, they were going to murder you, and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. I didn't want that."

A moment passed as that sank in. When Sherlock let John go, neither man moved. "Oh," John managed, lowering his eyes.

Sherlock took a step back. He swept his hand over his face, covering his eyes, and then through his hair. Then he took in a deep breath. He wasn't looking at John anymore, but John couldn't tear his eyes off Sherlock. "I told you that day," Sherlock said, still averting his eyes, "that alone protects me. It was a lie. I couldn't bear to be alone again. I need you to be alive, John. As long as you were alive, as long as you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were safe, it was okay. I knew I could come back."

John remembered a few nights before Sherlock jumped, they'd run in front of a bus handcuffed together. At the time, he'd had no idea what Sherlock was thinking, but that didn't matter. It was better, he thought, to die together than to live alone. Sherlock didn't want to live alone.

He swallowed the lump in his throat. Sherlock gave John puppy-dog eyes when he wanted something, but both of them knew that this was held too much gravity for cheap tricks. The look on Sherlock's face was, for once, subdued. It pleaded with him for forgiveness, for redemption. For the first time it occured to John that Sherlock had been suffering too.

He breathed out through his nose and shook his head. "You're not completely forgiven," he said, taking a step closer, "but... for now... welcome home."

Sherlock smiled, the real smile that revealed his perfect line of pearly white teeth. In that moment, John couldn't help himself. Miracle Sherlock, who had heard John's prayers and returned to him. He threw his arms around his old friend and patted him on the back. A guy's hug. A welcome home.


End file.
